


under the bed

by redlight



Category: Original Work
Genre: Consent Issues, Cunnilingus, Demon Sex, Demons, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gallows Humor, Genderqueer Character, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Lowercase, M/M, Magical Realism, Masochism, Monsters, Nightmares, Nonbinary Character, Other, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Supernatural Elements, Surreal, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Werewolves, laps lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-17 12:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16095896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: mel's had nightmares like this ever since he was a kid.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...happy halloween?
> 
> please don’t @me i’ll cry

**☾**

he’s not really a kid anymore, so—he shouldn’t be wary of the thing that crawls under his bed.

it’s not—real? it shouldn’t be. mel has nightmares, who _doesn’t_ —he has nightmares of overly-smiley shadow men stealing his favorite pink scarves, he has nightmares of flint being shiny and digging into every molecule of his skin because someone put them there, he has _nightmares_ but so does every little kid.

and—this monster is _different_ , yes—the sharp teeth and wide gold eyes that shine in the dark, with bruised-dark skin and little clawed fingers, the monster who hums into the darkness of the room, makes _sure_ mel is asleep, puts mel to sleep even when—

even when he doesn't wanna sleep.

but—it's not real? no, no it's not _really_ real. mel just has nightmares, he does, about maggots and magpies eating through his thin flesh and picking his bones clean, yeah, that's a normal _mel_ nightmare. he has dreams of his mama coming up from the grave with her fingers entwined 'round her own neck telling him she'd rather be dead like this than raise her child. it makes him cry, makes him sob, but it's _not never ever real._

the monster under his bed isn't real.

sometimes—see, this monster reoccurs, with the flesh stretched across its teeny-tiny bird bones, across its siren-song throat. usually mel's demons don't repeat, but this one does—maybe it likes mel? but it likes to—

well. this isn't real. it can't be.

but this demon, this monster of his—it likes to play with mel.

when mel wakes up with stickiness between his thighs, when he wakes up _wanting_ , begging to be _fucked up filled up, please please please_ —sometimes it's a consequence of the shadow men doing something—disgusting, unspeakable, something he wouldn't survive, and it makes him shake down to the bones ‘cause _mellie mellie you're so fucked up aren't you? so fuckin' wicked so fuckin' cursed._

but sometimes it's not the shadow men who spread mel's thighs open in the dead-dark-silence of the night, who keep him up and open forever and ever, make him into something else, something that isn't _mel_ —

but the shadow men feel like a different sort of reality from the monster under the bed.

 _that_ monster is—different.

sometimes mel feels the softness of its hair tangled between his shaky fingers when he sleeps. can barely hear the static-song that it hums through the air of his dark childhood bedroom. and mel can’t trust his own realities, no, but—

he’d wake up, sometimes, with the space between his thighs opened up and wet so _wet_ , like someone touched him, but—

no, no, that’s just—

mel just has dreams like that, sometimes, dark enough that he can’t remember, wakes up rubbing his thighs together and whimpering and _wanting_.

something—something inside him. something chewing his insides up. something swallowing him, eating him alive, something—

something with the kind of sharp-manic tongue and wild gold eyes and _so much so much hunger_.

and mel—knows it’s not real. his monsters are never real.

but—these are the monsters he’s had since he was a kid. nightmares. things in his closet and things under his bed.

none of it is real, right?

but when mel moves out finally, sleeps in his new bed finally, maybe he’s expecting it to be _different_ this time, which is irrational, but, that’s—it’s a new environment, and his monster won’t follow him, no matter how childish the thought is.

but in the new apartment, with his new roommate, in this new town with his new phone so he can video-call his mama every day—there’s still the sing-song hum in the night, the shuffle-shift-rustling under his bed.

in his new home, in his new bed, when he wakes up in the dark to his blood burning alive and there’s that oh-so familiar _hum,_ that _song_ , and for mel—

everything breaks apart. reality collapses down. it all makes sense.

‘cause his monster—his favorite monster, really, so much _nicer_ than the shadow men—with those bright _bright_ gold eyes gleaming up at him through the blackness, with those clawed fingers digging into mel’s shaking thighs as it spreads him open—

mel almost _screams_ , almost sobs from the terror, but shakes apart on the monster’s tongue instead.

—it’s _ridged_ , and the monster sings something _paralyzing_ into him, those sharp fangs brushing against the sensitive folds of his cunt enough that it makes mel _hiccup_ and squeeze his thighs around the monster’s head, and that—

that makes the monster ravenous.

its tongue is—flexible, it’s _long_ and it’s making its home in mel’s cunt, and the monster’s purring its pleasure into him so _rough_ and so _loud_ that it makes mel _squeal_.

“ _w-what are you_ —”

claws scratch across his thigh, hard and sharp enough to raise welts, makes mel feel like he’s going to be torn up to tiny little pieces and _god god god—_

the monster—its teeth are _sharp_ , still pricking up against all of mel’s most sensitive parts and making him _break_ , making his eyes well up with tears and when mel bites down on his lips to keep from _screaming_ they taste salty—

and mel feels some of those claw-wounds in his thighs starting to ooze and flood with his own bloodflow, but when he grabs at the monster—at its _fur, hair_ , god he doesn’t _know_ —it _hums_ into him again, that same old song underlined with such a satisfied purr, vibrating so _good_ like a reward for being so squirmy, for being such _good sweet prey_ —

those clawed fingers reach up to play with mel’s clit, _sharp sharp sharp too sharp_ and then there’s more fingers slipping inside him and it _hurts_ , it _hurts_ , he’s afraid that the monster is going to tear him up and make him bleed, but _god_ mel can’t help but squeeze around the thing’s hand—

and there’s the static-buzz in his bedroom so _loud_ , but mel’s getting louder, moaning all broken with his thighs shaking and his body trembling into all these needle-sharp shards. he’s saying nonsense and mess-talk under his breath, in between all the panting and squealing, _please please please hurt me please lick me out like that i want it i want it **i want it so bad** — _

mel’s so breathless that his scream is _soundless_ when he comes. feels his monster biting more kisses into his thighs, its teeth marking him as its own, and mel’s eyes flutter shut when it starts to lick at his hole again and again and _again_ —

—and he wakes up again, in his new bed, with the insides of his thighs slick and sticky and a _brutal_ soreness thrumming through inside him. he feels dizzy. feels empty.

but mel blearily hums the song stuck in his head—it’s pretty, really, it’s becoming his favorite—and he reaches his fingers down to open himself up again.

he’s just _so hungry_ , and there was this dream-nightmare-dream he had that he can barely remember, but it made his cunt sticky-tacky-wet and he’s _wanting_ but—

too bad it wasn’t real.


	2. Chapter 2

☼

mel is _pretty sure_ he sleepwalks.

matt—his roommate—he tells him that.

“you go to the fridge. sometimes you sleep-bake and i gotta turn off the oven for you,” matt tells him, dazed-eyed and dark-lined underneath his lashes, slumping over his empty plate at the table during breakfast. he’s always awake at night, werewolf shit or whatever—it’s in the creak-crack of his bones and the wild teal in his eyes, the slant to his canine teeth. “sometimes you masturbate.”

he says it so blatantly mel drops his fork into his plate. “huh?”

matt picks up his fork and uses the opportunity to steal a bite of mel’s pancakes. “you jack off, i hear you making noise— _ow, fuck—_ ” matt hisses when mel kicks him in the shin. “i’m just tellin’ you what i know, kitty, jesus—”

“you listen to me?!”

“my ears are _sensitive_ , mellie.” matt points at one of the offending organs in question. “...also i can smell you after, sometimes.”

—mel kicks him under the table again. “what?”

“ _shit_ , kitty—” matt drops the slobber-covered fork back into mel’s plate, that _fucking heathen_ —“if it makes you feel any better, you smell _way_ better than my last roommate.”

“you’re not helping yourself!” mel snaps, pressing his thighs together.

“i’m just saying!”

“you’re saying bullshit!” mel snatches his fork up and points it at matt’s gross mouth. “go clean this!”

“what?”

“go clean this or i’ll _stomp on your cock_.”

“—christ, okay, fine.”

matt is a shitty roommate. mel’s gonna put chocolate chips in his pancakes next time, he swears to god.

**☾**

but, here’s the deal, mel keeps—

keeps waking up _sticky_.

with sweat making his neck and chest tacky, with his inner thighs sticking together with—

usually it’s his own slick, clear and shiny when he checks.

sometimes, though, sometimes—

mel wakes up with such an _ache_ inside of him, stretched out and opened up, with thick white come streaking down his thighs.

 _that’s_ fucked up.

it’s not like—it’s not like mel’s getting dick on a regular basis! or any dick at _all_. so unless werewolf-man matt is fucking and knotting mel while he’s asleep—and he’s a pretty light sleeper, okay! he’d know it was _matt_ even if he were too tired to get up—but then—

mel doesn’t know. maybe it’s the shadow men who gang-rape him in his worst, most fucked up nightmare-fantasies.

—yeah, no, mellie, calm the fuck down.

but still that’s not—normal—

it’s like how the things in the mirror don’t make sense sometimes. mel touches his reflection but his reflection screams instead. that kinda shit.

it’s like how the bruises in mel’s lips don’t match to anything—the teethmarks aren’t right, it’s not his _own_. it’s like how he drips and trembles and heaves with something-something-something as heavy and sloshing as oil, enough to make him dizzy and sick and teary, and—

and maybe it’s stupid but maybe the nightmares make mel sad sometimes.

makes him wanna stay in bed with the pillow over his ears until he fades into nothingness. makes him wanna shut his eyes until the shadows stop looking back.

it’s—

he doesn’t like it, not knowing the things his body gets up to.

see? see, as a kid—mel was the kind of nightmare-ish, sleepwalking child who got his tiny fingers stuck on his doors and his mouth opened wide by screams and needle teeth. mama got worried, got _so so_ very worried, always gathered him up and bandaged him up and gave him kisses and whispered prayers across his sweat-sticky mop of hair. blew the words over him like she tried to wash away the terror.

but, but mama, they always come back—

well, maybe it’s whatever.

well, maybe it’s _not_.

‘cause the nightmares—that was when mel was a _kid_ , scared of the monsters in his closet and whatever lurked under his bed, and he got _over it_ , he got over it as a teenager, honestly—!

maybe it’s the unfamiliarity of it all. maybe that’s why he’s scared of everything again?

his bed isn’t a fuckin’ war zone. get _over it_ , mellie.

doesn’t matter if it feels like hell.

so he’s got this— _filth_ sticking to his skin. the tongues licking between his thighs and up his belly button. fingers scratching across his chest enough to make him cry, _no not there_ —

the teeth scraping across his bones and marrow, needle and narrow, and it makes mel—

whatever it is, it makes mel hurt. makes mel come. and what it is _isn’t real_.

and—

sometimes he—

he loses time.

and he was never _good_ at time, not really. took forever to learn how to read analog clocks. but he loses _time_.

closes his eyes in bed and wakes up to 4:37am where he’s curled up on the couch with his favorite flower pots broken on the ground in front of him, and it makes mel—

it makes mel’s throat close up and his eyes teary and it makes his roommate matt _worry_ but it’s—

it’s just sleepwalking.

sometimes mel closes his eyes in bed and it’s 3:45am because he was too afraid to sleep but when he wakes up there’s—

 _hot-heavy-hard._ the smell-stench of salt and sour in the air, enough to make him choke and gag on his breath. _sound_ of sloshing-squelching-sloppy and he blinks his eyes open and looks down to see-feel-hear the cock sliding in and out of him.

the thing is this isn’t even the first time it’s happened.

when mel gasps and tosses his head back ( _the man is good at this, scraping mel up inside, makes his cunt squeeze and flutter and quiver with the thickness, slickness, listless_ ) he gets to see the man’s face—

pretty. green eyes and pointy nose and blonde-yellow hair and a frown on his face enough to showcase all his concern. pretty. he stops rocking his hips. “darling? you alright? do you need me to stop—“

mel whines under his breath, tangles the bedsheets up between his fingers, they’re white—his own are blue with a shitty-ugly flower pattern, this ain’t his bed—and mel clenches down on the strange man’s cock hard enough to make them both yelp.

“i-i’m sorry, i just needed a breath,” mel says, but _what is he saying? who is this, what’s happening_ —but the man is hiking one of mel’s legs higher, hooking it over his shoulder and _fuck that feels good_ when he slides just the littlest bit deeper—“oh, fuck!” mel yelps, lets his hips grind down even more.

and the man is—he’s so pale that his face is flushed red all the way through, and his voice is wrecked-ruined-ravaged and so _goddamn pretty_ when he calls mel _darling_ , and mel’s deciding to like him, isn’t he? he let him inside him—

he looks human. just mel’s type.

“sorry, darling,” he’s saying, but mel’s using his legs to pull the man in by his shoulders, mel’s whining as he jerks and gushes even more slick around that cock.

“ _please_ , please keep fucking me _god i want it please—_ ” and he bites his lips hard enough to bleed, digs his nails into the man’s back to _scratch-scratch-scratch_ him up like monsters do—

mel’s eyes flutter shut when he comes, but when he opens them up he’s in his bed again and it’s 3:46am and he’s not sure what’s real anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

☼

“hey, mellie, you okay?”

matt looks weird when he’s concerned. it’s like his dumb shitpost face isn’t made for it.

but mel’s tired, curled up on their shitty little couch in his pajamas. he’s—well, he’s got his face buried in a pillow, clutching onto the dumb stuffed kitten matt bought him. “i can’t sleep,” mel muffles out.

and matt—even when he’s got his teeth grit up with blood, _was he out hunting_ , and his eyes flashing a little too wide and wild, he’s still sitting down on the couch beside him, leaning into mel’s space. “you runnin’ a fever or somethin’? it don’t smell like you’re sick, but—” when his hand brushes mel’s side accidentally, mel still shivers. “—ugh. alright, mellie, pack up your stuff. we’re having a sleepover.”

mel blinks up at him. he holds onto the kitty stuffie tighter—it’s big and it’s warm and it’s pink and it’s _stupid_ so mel doesn’t wanna admit how much he loves it but he figures matt kinda knows it anyway—

mel yelps when matt hefts him over his shoulder—it’s too easy for him. “matthias!” 

“sorry mellie.” matt even picks up the stuffie mel dropped. “did you name this thing yet? she looks like a marina. or a francesca.”

“don’t assume their gender,” mel grumbles. “and yes, they _are_ named francesca.”

it makes matt snort. “you’re real fuckin’ cute, y’know that?”

“yeah, i’m adorable.” he presses his face into matt’s shirt—he smells sour like sweat, and maybe it’s kinda weird that mel doesn’t mind. “i’m really tired, mattie.”

“i know, kitty.” 

“i’m sorry i put chocolate chips in your pancakes, mattie.”

matt laughs breathlessly. “i don’t think you did that. maybe you were dreaming again.”

matt’s—a big guy, with big hands warm around mel’s waist when he puts him down on the bed. he even tugs the blanket up around mel’s shoulders. “you’re so _sweet_.”

“like candy?” matt snorts.

“like syrup. thank you, mattie.” mel yawns. slumps back into the bed. matt’s sheets are white, too. “i don’t like dreaming.”

matt slumps down beside him. his hands are so _warm_ against mel’s skin, and mel thought his own body ran that hot. “i know, kitty,” he chuckles, that airy-breathless tone all over again. “i know. i’ll be here to chase any nightmares off this time, okay?”

“nothing’s real,” mel hums. “the universe is a hologram and it doesn’t care how our atoms are arranged and it’ll all fade to nothing eventually.”

matt quirks an eyebrow at him. his face is being dumb again. “just go to sleep, mel.”

**☾**

sometimes mel has bad dreams about matt.

he’s a werewolf and everything, right? so mel thinks ‘bout the scary teeth, the fearful-tearful terror he could instill inside anyone. mel lives with a wolf, and wolves can be scary. right? that makes sense.

but matt is—nice. he wouldn’t hurt mel, right?

even if sometimes mel thinks of sharp teeth between his thighs.

even if sometimes mel thinks of being torn into little tiny pieces and swallowed _down down down_ —

okay, enough of that, mellie.

but, but—sometimes mel _needs_ something more than his shitty-sick imagination, needs something _harder rougher realer_ —

maybe matt would knot him.

fuck up into mel so goddamn _deep_ it makes him sob, makes him wet, that knot knocking up against his cunt all sloppy and too _wide_ —pound into his pussy until mel’s breaking apart, whining and squeezing around that wolf cock and desperately jerking his hips back—

make a macerated mess of mel’s neck with all his bites, _wolves are possessive, aren’t they mattie—?_

but mel doesn’t wanna have nightmares with matt in the room, it’s _matt_ , who’s too nice to him, doesn’t deserve all mel’s weirdness, all mel’s crazy—

doesn’t deserve it, how badly mel wants to infect him with all the sickness that lives inside him.

so when matt sleeps beside him, mel—watches. 

the rise and fall of his broad chest, his fluttery eyelashes like tarantula hairs, his cute big nose. skin all dark-silver-gray in the moonlight that the wolves call their realm.

(matt doesn’t usually sleep at night—must’ve kept himself awake all dawn and day so mel could have company.

that’s—sweet. sweeter than mel deserves, really. makes him warm.)

but sometimes, even with matt beside him—mel’s eyes flutter shut and he wakes up with his own fingers stuffed inside his pulsing cunt, his nose pressed into matt’s soft-breathing chest as matt presses his arm around mel’s waist and he _snores_.

makes mel sick to his stomach, makes mel wanna wretch when he drags his sticky fingers out of himself, cunt fluttering and empty. makes him _sick_.

matt doesn’t—deserve this.

that’s the last time mel sleeps beside him, for a while.


End file.
